the farce and flare of coromandel chic;
a woozy misoprostol spell slowly leaks
through my bloodstream; my heart trickles down my cheeks
this wasn't supposed to happen after four weeks -
the doctor stutters behind his mask when he speaks;
my womb cramps, clots, cries and creaks
salt stinging down my cheeks
- psychosomatic, probably, doctor thinks,
embedded in these atoms, it never blinks
a foodless belly and veins full make me weak
return me to the rivers winding through forested peaks -
a motherless body needs space to breathe and shriek
this world, tumultuous, filled with grief
pre-masticated words stick sharp in my teeth ...
and still --
much safer, much more loved, cared for, respected, heard, held, supported,
than so many wombs here have been...
a small lick of blood flows a little more free
and for that, I am both grateful and guilty
oh! what heavy ancestry I am to carry
to heal these generations with a deep urgency:
but already there’s blood staining this life,
not all of us are getting out alive.